


On the Ups

by Amoreanonyname



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Abuse, M/M, Mild Smut, Reminiscing, Swearing, Theft, Wincest - Freeform, but only slightly - Freeform, popping pills, slightly dark!chesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:15:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23762176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amoreanonyname/pseuds/Amoreanonyname
Summary: "Finally, it’d end. It’d wear off, they’d collapse in an exhausted heap for a few hours, before setting off to work the next day. On the real hard hunts, the ones they knew they’d barely be able to sleep for days, they’d just keep going like that sometimes, only to finally take something different at the end, come down, and sleep it off. They wouldn’t discuss it, but it would happen again."Sam reminisces about younger, dumber days.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	On the Ups

**Author's Note:**

> How do Sam and Dean sleep so little, and seemingly cross the country in no time at all? There's an obvious answer, if not network-friendly. Inspired by a coversation with thesabotagedandtheovershadowed.
> 
> NOTE: I have never, personally, abused stimulants (outside, perhaps, caffeine and sugar), please forgive any potential ignorance I may have displayed here.

Hunting can be a really taxing job sometimes. Especially the way they used to do it. Driving one end of the country to the other, staying up all night on stakeouts. It wasn’t unusual to be pretty light on sleep during a case.

When they first started, Sam had been vehemently opposed to _stimulant abuse_ , until one late night, Dean pointedly asked Sam what he thought that sixth cup of coffee was. Okay, sometimes pharmacological assistance wasn’t the end of the world, and Sam had to admit, not for the first time, that his brother was smarter than he was.

The ends of the cases, the _denouements_ , Sam would be standing there, nodding earnestly to the latest grateful family, saying _their thanks was all the payment they needed_ , assuming their gratitude meant they wouldn’t be too upset about their stripped-out medicine cabinets. Not just for the uppers, but for the other things they needed, the opiates, the _downers_. Every damn household had ritalin, sleeping pills, benzos, high-octane painkillers from some knee surgery or another. They already abused their fake-insurance hard enough for the stuff they couldn’t do themselves. These families, getting the monsters cleaned out of their homes for free, could at least kick that much towards their medical expenses.

They’d get a lead on a case, a thousand miles away, figure they could get there the next day if they did it right. Dean was always the doctor, the one who doled out the dose. More often than he cared to admit, Sam had no idea what it was, but he also knew Dean knew his shit enough, and would never overdose him or give him anything really harmful. 

Zooming through the night, hyped up to shit, it was “part of the job”, but also fun as hell, if Sam was honest. While Dean kept the car on the road, Sam’s job was to man the scanner, make sure their path was clear. The Impala was distinctive enough, they were driving fast enough, that getting pulled over would likely mean an impoundment and a suspended license. Plus, of course, _all the other shit_. Dean drove, Sam made sure they didn’t get caught. 

They almost never used dealers, tried to avoid the illegal shit. Not because they suddenly cared about the law, but because, moving around so much, they could never trust where they’d be getting stuff from, what could be in it. There had been just one time, just one desperate time, when Lucifer was in Sam’s head and he hadn’t slept in days. Let the FDA approve it, so they knew it was safe.

Flying past the darkened countryside, too amped up to even try to focus on their surroundings, manic conversations taking them in every direction. They’d suddenly be talking about Icelandic Sagas and ballerinas, wrestling and politics, yelling, giddy, laughing, yelling, cursing, punching each other, but only playfully. Talking so fast, they couldn’t get the words out fast enough, already three thoughts ahead before they’d finished their sentence. 

They’d screech into some seedy motel in the wee hours of the morning, some front-desk clerk who was also fucked up enough on something, but who wasn’t inclined either way to ask questions. 

Charging into their room, still up there, still needing a place to put the energy. And that’s when shit would happen. Pushing up against each other, grappling, some weird mix of pissed off and turned on, not even sure what they wanted from each other but aware of where it would lead. Eventually landing on a bed, or wall, or table, or really any surface would do.

They could go a long time when they were like that.

That part didn’t happen often. Just every now and then. Just when they were high. Or when one of them was about to die or back from the dead or had nearly died, and they needed the hands and lips and teeth and bruises to remind themselves that they were both _there_. 

Finally, it’d end. It’d wear off, they’d collapse in an exhausted heap for a few hours, before setting off to work the next day. On the real hard hunts, the ones they knew they’d barely be able to sleep for days, they’d just keep going like that sometimes, only to finally take something different at the end, come down, and sleep it off. They wouldn’t discuss it, but it would happen again. 

It was the life, after all. 

It had been the life. A long time ago. Now they were older, steadier, _settled_. Sam couldn’t say he was unhappy. In fact, this was the happiest his life had ever been. At this stage in the game, if there was some far-flung case with a tight deadline, they were more inclined to pass it off to someone else. At this age, neither of them were interested in messing themselves up more than they needed to. 

And they no longer needed to get high to do what they wanted to each other. It no longer had to be angry, or painful, or frantic, or only when the world was ending. After what they’d been through, what they’d survived, they’d earned the right to be who they were. 

But sometimes, he had to admit he missed it. Missed driving around getting fucked up with his brother. 

Just a little local case, a quick salt-and-burn, to relieve a family of their burden. Sam was still light-handed enough to relieve them of a few other things too. 

Just relaxing one night, Dean coming to him with a couple of beers, drinking to a job well done. Sam looked at him out of one eye, presented his find.

“For old times’ sake?” Dean smiled. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who reads this! As always, feedback is welcome! :)


End file.
